angel or devil

Isabella blinked, taken aback. "What?"

"You think I would kill the one person who showed me kindness?" Olivia scoffed, swirling the wine in her glass again. "No. He begged me to do it."

"That's a lie," Isabella spat.

Olivia's gaze flickered with something—pity, maybe. Or perhaps something far more dangerous.

"You really think he was living in comfort behind those stone walls?" she asked, tilting her head slightly. "You think he was treated like a guest?"

Isabella's hands trembled.

Olivia leaned forward, her voice darkening.

"Every letter he sent you, every reassuring word he wrote, came at a cost. Every time he refused to give them what they wanted, they tore into him. Beat him. Burned him. Bled him dry. And still, he endured it. For you."

Isabella shook her head, eyes widening in disbelief.

"No," she whispered. "That's not true. He always told me he was fine. That even though he was imprisoned, they wouldn't—"

"They did," Olivia interrupted, her voice low, unyielding.

"What you suffered tonight—the pain of the poison running through your veins?" she said. "That was a fraction of what they did to him. A mere tenth of what he endured."

Isabella felt her breath falter.

"He didn't want to be the reason you lost yourself," Olivia continued, watching the blood bead on her skin. "He didn't want to be the weight that dragged you down. So he made a choice."

The dagger clattered against the porcelain as she let it fall.

"And I granted him mercy."

Olivia's lips curled into a bitter smirk. "Come now, do you really think my father is called the Devil for nothing?"

She let the words linger in the air, watching Isabella's face, waiting for the weight of them to sink in. And then, almost absently, she continued, "And there was that girl too… But that doesn't matter now. What matters is where we were that day—at your father's side."

She swirled the last remnants of wine in her glass before setting it aside. Her voice was softer when she spoke again, as if she were reciting something from a distant dream.

"When I was released from prison, the day before I was set to return to the Duchy, your father made a request. He asked for a pen and a sheet of paper." A humorless chuckle escaped her lips. "I gave them to him, slipping them into his hands in secret."

Her gaze flickered, the ghost of a memory passing over her features.

"He wrote you a letter that night," Olivia said. "His final letter. The only real one. Not the ones they forced him to write, the ones they dictated while he bled onto the stone floors. This one was his. And then… he made another request. One far stranger than the first."

A flicker of something rare—something almost human—crossed Olivia's face. For a moment, just a moment, tears glistened in her eyes, but she blinked them away before they could fall.

"Kill me," she whispered, her voice almost an echo of the past.

She could still hear him—his voice raw with desperation, his hands trembling as he clutched hers.

"Please, my dear child. Kill me. I can't do this anymore. I am destroying my own daughter with my very existence. If they ever discover the truth about her, they will kill her. Please, help me. Help her."

Olivia exhaled slowly, shaking her head as if to clear the sound of his pleading. "I told him no. I begged him not to ask me for this."

She looked down at her hands as if she could still feel his grip, still feel the way he guided them to his own throat.

"Then he took my hands," she murmured. "Placed them around his neck himself."

The candlelight flickered, casting shifting shadows across Isabella's face.

"'Strangle me,' he said. 'Please. And if you ever find my daughter… give her this letter. And Olivia… take care of yourself. Don't let them break your soul.'"

Silence.

The kind that stretches between two people when there is nothing left to say, when the weight of truth is too much to bear.

Olivia finally looked at Isabella then, taking in her expression—shock so deep it had drained the tears from her eyes. And yet, Olivia pressed on, her voice steady, unwavering.

"So I did it," she said. "I killed him. With my own hands. I won't deny it. But it was what he asked of me. He couldn't do it himself."

She reached for her glass again, but this time, she drank slowly, savoring the bitter warmth of the wine.

"Oh," she said suddenly, as if remembering something trivial. "The letter. It's in the wooden box inside my wardrobe. You'll find it there."

Her gaze flicked back to Isabella.

"You can go read it. If you want."

A beat of silence.

"I injected you with the antidote earlier," Olivia added. "The poison should be gone now."

But even though the venom had left her veins, Isabella remained frozen in place. She felt no relief—only the weight of Olivia's confession pressing against her chest like iron chains.

Six months.

Six months without a single letter.

She had known something was wrong. Her father had always sent messages, always found a way, no matter how brief or cryptic. But then, suddenly—silence.

He had made excuses at first. But deep down, Isabella had known. She had always known.

She forced herself to breathe, her lungs feeling as though they had been carved from stone.

And then, barely above a whisper, she spoke.

"I don't know," she admitted. "I don't know if I should hate you so much that I want to kill you… or if I should thank you."

Olivia's gaze softened—just for a moment, just enough to be noticed. But then, as if shaking off the weight of the moment, she reached for the bandage around her hand and began unraveling it.

Isabella's eyes darted to the wound. The gash was still fresh, crimson seeping from the reopened cut, dripping onto the floor in soft, rhythmic patters.

"What are you—" Isabella started, but Olivia cut her off without a glance.

She dipped her wounded hand into the water, and slowly, the once-clear surface of the bath turned red. A stark, vivid red.

And then, she spoke again.

"Well," Olivia mused, her voice laced with something unreadable. "You said you don't know whether I deserve your gratitude or your hatred."

She turned her head slightly, meeting Isabella's eyes once more.

"Then decide now."

The words were a challenge. A quiet, steady challenge.

"The poison is gone from your system," Olivia continued, her tone almost playful. "You can save me… or you can let me die."

She leaned back, allowing the blood to spread further into the water, watching as the ripples swallowed the last traces of her reflection.

"The choice is yours."

A pause. Then, she smirked.

"I will accept whatever punishment you see fit."

Her voice dropped to something just above a whisper.

"Don't worry—no one will blame you if you let me drown."

She let out a soft, humorless chuckle, tilting her head slightly.

"After all," she murmured, "I am the whore here, aren't I?"

Isabella scoffed, arms crossed over her chest. "As if I'd believe a single word you say."

A playful smile flickered across Olivia's lips, but it was fleeting—her eyelids fluttered, her breath shallowed, and in mere moments, her body slumped, consciousness slipping away. The water, once clear, was now a sea of crimson, her blood swirling in slow, hypnotic patterns.

For a moment, Isabella simply stood there, watching.

It should have felt satisfying.

She had told herself it would.

And yet, as she stared at Olivia's lifeless form sinking deeper into the bloodied water, a different feeling crept in—one far worse than the bitter relief she had anticipated.

Regret.

Before she could stop herself, she lunged forward, arms plunging into the frigid water, pulling Olivia's limp body out of the tub. The sudden weight of her, drenched and lifeless, sent a cold shock through Isabella's veins.

"Damn you, Olivia," she muttered through gritted teeth, dragging her onto the floor. "Why do you always do this?"

Her hands trembled as she searched for something—anything—to stop the bleeding. Her gaze landed on the discarded bandage nearby, already stained with red. Without a second thought, she grabbed it, pressing it tightly against Olivia's wound. Blood seeped through her fingers as she wrapped the bandage as best she could.

Cursing under her breath, Isabella worked with a frantic desperation that was so unlike her. She wasn't the type to panic, to fumble, to let emotions cloud her actions. And yet, here she was, hands shaking, heart pounding in her chest.

Isabella hesitated for only a moment before reaching for Olivia's discarded dress. With a quiet sigh, she draped it over Olivia's trembling form, covering her bare shoulders.

"There," she muttered, more to herself than to Olivia. "That should help."

The woman beneath her didn't react—her breathing remained shallow, her body unnaturally still. Isabella watched her for a moment longer, unsure of what exactly she was feeling.

Pity? Annoyance? Something else entirely?

She scoffed, shaking her head.

"This doesn't mean I care," she added quickly, almost as if she needed to convince herself. "I just don't want to deal with your death on my conscience."

Still, she didn't move away. Not yet. Instead, she found herself lingering, watching the slow rise and fall of Olivia's chest, waiting for any sign that she was coming back to herself.

"Wake up, you miserable wretch," she hissed, fingers gripping Olivia's face. "If you die, I swear I will never forgive you."

No response.

Her frustration boiled over.

With one swift motion, she slapped Olivia across the cheek. Then again. And again.

"Olivia!" she yelled. "Wake up, damn it!"

A groan.

Isabella barely registered the sound before Olivia's fingers twitched against her arm. Slowly, painfully, her eyelids fluttered open, revealing hazy, unfocused eyes.

"Are you trying to wake me up…" Olivia rasped, voice barely above a whisper. "…or kill me?"

Isabella let out a sharp breath, slumping back onto the cold floor beside her.

"For a moment," she admitted, "I thought you were dead."

Olivia, still sprawled on the floor, turned her head toward her. Despite the weakness in her limbs, her lips curved into a faint smirk.

"I can't believe you actually saved me," she mused, her voice laced with something unreadable. "I wouldn't have done the same if our roles were reversed."

Isabella huffed, looking away. "That's what makes us different."

A chuckle. Weak, breathy, but undeniably amused. "Haven't you ever heard the saying?" Olivia murmured. "Opposites attract."

Isabella scoffed, turning her face away to mask whatever emotions were beginning to surface. She pushed herself to her feet, shaking off the remnants of her own hesitation.

"You're pathetic," she muttered, glancing down at Olivia's still-motionless form.

And then, as she turned to leave, she paused at the door, throwing one last glance over her shoulder.

"Why aren't you getting up?" she asked, raising a brow. "Or are you just slithering on the ground like the snake you are?"

Olivia did not answer.

For the first time, her silence was not one of cold indifference or calculated distance. This was different. There was something unsettling in the way her body remained still, her breaths shallow, her usually sharp gaze dulled by an unfocused haze.

Isabella frowned. From the very beginning, Olivia's words and actions had carried an air of detachment—always measured, always controlled. But now? There was an unnatural tremor in her fingers, a fragility in the way she struggled to remain upright.

A flicker of hesitation crossed Isabella's face before she moved closer, cautious but curious.

"Hey," she called, voice quieter than before. "What's wrong with you?"

Still, no answer.

Frowning, Isabella knelt beside her, watching her carefully. Then, slowly, she reached out, brushing her fingers against Olivia's cheek.

Heat.

A feverish warmth seared against her fingertips, burning in contrast to Olivia's usual cool demeanor. The realization sent a strange unease creeping into Isabella's chest.

Was she always this weak?

No—this wasn't weakness. This was something else. Something involuntary.

For a brief moment, Isabella considered stepping away, letting Olivia handle it herself. After all, hadn't she always acted like she needed no one? But then, something in the back of her mind whispered that this was different.

A smirk tugged at Isabella's lips, masking the concern threatening to surface.

"Hah," she murmured, tilting her head. "So even you have weak points, huh?"

She exhaled slowly, rolling up her sleeves.

"Alright, then," she muttered, cracking her knuckles. "Let's see what I can do about i